


Knight Erring

by ilyena_sylph



Category: Elenium/Tamuli Series - Eddings
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyena_sylph/pseuds/ilyena_sylph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything they've been through, <i>this</i> is what gets Berit injured? Some days, Khalad thinks the universe has it in for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight Erring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kirst Ravensoul](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kirst+Ravensoul).



Khalad was half-leaning on the counter of a market stall, half-heartedly arguing with the merchant over the cost of some beans and leeks, when he heard four noises in close succession. A mule brayed, strident and furious, the unmistakable sound of hooves impacting a human body, the equally unmistakable sound of a body hitting a stone wall, and a woman's shriek of worry and fright, all in the span of time it took him to breathe twice. The apprentice knight -- and he was still going to get even with his Lord somehow for that -- dropped the argument he was having and took off at a quick jog for the direction of the noises. He was curious, and he didn't like that merchant's selection all that well anyway. He could always find another, if the man was that offended by his turning away at the sound of a woman's cry.

He had heard more than enough to have judged the location, and he made his way through the shops surrounding the central common quickly, headed towards the main entryway. He ducked around a wagon piled high with hay and the pair of men following it, and all of his father's training wasn't enough to keep him from freezing in the middle of the thoroughfare out of shock. Then, a moment later, he was more frozen by his attempts at choking back laughter. The situation wasn't, on the surface, funny. There was a mule approximately four feet from the entryway, its ears still laid back and stomping one front hoof, still half-laden with parcels -- the rest of them had come loose of the pack-frame and were scattered across the cobblestones; a woman in peasants' clothes holding the mule's lead-rope with panicked eyes, and... one junior Pandion Knight who had obviously been kicked into the wall hard enough that he hadn't risen yet.

Of all the times not to be wearing your armor, Berit, Khalad thought, shaking his head. They hadn't thought he would need it inside the walls of Lenda, after they'd found out that they were going to be delayed a few days in reaching Demos because heavy rains had washed out the bridge over the Eldane River and turned the banks into impassable mud. River was an overstatement for the Eldane, in comparison to the Cimmura or Arruk, overgrown stream was more like it in Khalad's opinion. No matter what the thing ought to be called, the point was that with the ford unusable until the banks dried enough to ford, they'd elected to stay in the ducal city rather than camp three days out at the river's bank with the possibility of more rain coming at any moment.

So, of course, Berit had picked a moment when he was un-armored, of all possible moments, to get behind an angry mule at precisely the right angle to be cow-kicked into a foot-thick stone wall. He had to admire the skill that had taken, or possibly the ill-luck. He shook the thoughts off and moved through the thin crowd, covering the rest of the distance to his friend -- one of the few true friends he had among the un-spurred Pandions -- quickly, swinging far wide of the mule's restless hooves, crouching to kneel at his side. "Berit?"

The unhappy groan he received in return, and the glassy look in Berit's eyes when they finally opened told him two things he hadn't wanted to know. Berit had hit the wall head-first, and it had rattled something in his skull. Berit was probably going to be sick when he got him onto his feet, much as if he'd hit the ground badly after being unhorsed, or taken a heavy blow in the helm. Khalad frowned, shaking his head. "Berit, talk to me."

"Is milord all right?"

That was certainly not Berit's voice. For one thing, it was a high soprano, and for another, it was coming from behind him. Khalad turned his head, looking up at the woman who now had the mule turned so it was facing them, its hooves well away. She looked wax-pale... not that he blamed her. Some lords would have demanded the beast be killed, or worse, for its kick having caused this kind of pain. "He'll be fine, mistress," Khalad replied, managing to smile at her. She was already frightened, she didn't need to have him showing that he was concerned as well. "He's had worse knocks than this one. I'll keep an eye on your parcels, if you'll get that beast tied somewhere it can't kick anyone else's sense out."

"I don't know what shied Buttercup so badly, he's never like this" she said, shaking her head quickly, "but yes, milord." She turned, pulling the mule with her by main force, and disappeared between two of the stalls before his call of "I'm not a -- oh, bless it," could reach her.

"Nngh. Stop... protesting, Khalad," Berit's voice was a little unsteady. "You're... going to be."

"I'm not yet," Khalad replied, "and you know how I feel about it anyway." He looked away from the woman's parcels and down to his friend, lifting one hand with thumb and forefinger held up. "How many fingers?"

"If your hand would hold still," Berit replied after a moment, "I'd tell you. I _think_ one and your thumb, but there are six of them and they won't hold still."

"Only _you_, Berit, could come out of all you've been through unscathed... and get your sense knocked out by a mule named Buttercup," Khalad told him, smiling slowly, turning to look back towards the packages.

"Don't... rub it in, Khalad."

"Get yourself pulled up against the wall, before any of her things disappear," he grumbled, pushing back to his feet only once Berit had managed to get his body to cooperate with moving him into a sitting position. Then he went to gather the packs out of the edge of the thoroughfare, where people were making little effort to avoid them, stacking them beside Berit's hip for lack of a better place to put them. He turned around from the second trip and glared, his mouth narrowing. "Berit, you'll throw up if you stand up, stay where the mule put you another hundred-count. I don't like the look of your eyes."

"You expect me to -- nngh -- count, when I feel like this?"

"Then just stay down until I'm _done_ here, if counting's too much work."

"Why?"

"Fine, don't. Fall over in your own retching, for all I care," Khalad replied, letting a little of his father's acidic tone creep into his voice as he reached him with packages, and was pleased to note that Berit had stopped trying to pull himself up the wall, and was staying where he'd been put. "Nice to see you can have sense," he said, as he went to get the last couple of already-trampled linen-wrapped parcels. At least they hadn't been stolen, but people were so careless...

With his promise to the woman dealt with, he could go back to the more important job of checking his friend over. "Where did it kick you?"

"I...I don't..."

Khalad didn't like the sound of that. When you didn't remember how you'd gotten hurt, the injury was generally fairly bad. Berit was still speaking, though.

"Mid-chest, from the way my ribs hurt. And yes. I feel like I was just un-horsed onto cobblestones -- that mule had a kick like Sir Vanion with a lance..."

At least now Berit was talking coherently, Khalad decided. That was better than it could be, even if that gap in his memory didn't suit him at all. "Sir Vanion would never have sent you flying onto cobblestones, Berit. Don't be ridiculous."

"Sometimes you're as ill-mannered as your brother," Berit snapped back, his cheeks instantly reddening. "Khalad, I'm sorry, I -- "

"Stow it. Talen's blunt, just like we all are." Khalad shook his head, wondering why the rest of his 'brothers' in the Pandion Order had more of a problem with his half-brother's illicit parentage than any of them, or their mothers, did. "Follow my finger with your eyes, Berit, let's see how bad this is."

"It can't be that bad, it was just a mule," Berit protested.

"And a wall. Probably more than the wall than the mule, actually." Khalad shifted his hand, pleased to see that Berit didn't ignore the finger moving across his vision. His pupils skipped, though, trying to track the motion, and Khalad sighed. "We're going to be later than we thought. It's a good thing my mothers don't know we're coming."

"Why are we going to be later than we thought?"

"Because your brain's rattled, and it's a bad idea to put you back on a horse like this. If you've stopped looking green as Sir Ulath's surcoat by the time the ford's dry, we'll go on."

"You know, I do out-rank you," Berit said wearily.

"Yes, and would you rather spend a couple of extra days in your tunic a nice dry inn, or spend them leaning over your saddlebow and heaving against all of your padding and the armor because you've jarred your skull again, with rain coming down?"

Berit looked up at him for long moments, pupils unevenly wide, and carefully held his head still. "You have such a way with words, Khalad."

"I try." He smiled, making some attempt at modesty, and then heard the quick steps of a woman behind them. He turned his head, offering her a half-smile. "I hope you didn't lose too much in the trampling, mistress."

She'd brought a large wash-basket with her, he noticed, approving expression on his face. That was quick thinking, and would keep her from having to make more than one trip with the packages.

"I'm hardly worried about my wares, milord, at this point! Milord, are you alright?"

"Nothing that won't heal," Berit replied, smiling up at her -- and just like every other time the junior knight smiled at a pretty woman, Khalad could almost watch her start to melt. Amusing as it normally was to watch Berit be oblivious at women, it wasn't nearly as good sport when his friend was this rattled.

"True," he said, getting to his feet. "Do you need any help with your things, before I attempt to get my friend back to our inn?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't..." she nearly dropped the package she was holding, shaking her head, and bent to gather her things into the wash basket, hands moving quickly. She obviously wanted to be away from them before anything else could happen, and he still didn't blame her at all.

"Alright, Berit. Let's get you up," Khalad said, reaching down to slip his hands under his friend's broad shoulders, bracing to pull him to his feet in a long, steady motion, watching his face the whole time. He turned some truly awful shades of white and green, looking almost like a Church banner, and his mouth was drawn tight -- but he hadn't lost all of his breakfast all over his clothes, so it was better than it might have been.

"I... see what you mean. About the sickness," Berit said, very quietly, half-leaning against his shoulder. "Have it your way. I... don't think I want to try to ride, right now. I would if we were in a hur -- "

"If it was important, I'd tie you to the saddle and we'd ride even if you went unconscious, I'd just let my mothers take care of you afterwards. It's not. Arm over my shoulders, now, and we'll get back to the inn. Restocking our provisions can wait until you've had some willowbark and comfrey, and you're sitting up somewhere."

"Why not laying down? That sounds better right now."

"Because my mothers said it's a bad idea to lay down when you've hit your head badly. Sometimes you don't wake up. Now, you're too tough to prove them right, I know, but it will keep them from fussing at both of us."

"Anything but that. All right. I'll sit up."

"I thought you'd see it my way," Khalad said, relaxing for the first time since he'd heard the shriek.

As bad situations went, this one was hardly worth mentioning -- except possibly for sheer comedy value. He started composing the version he was going to tell his half-brother in his head, even as he helped his slightly-battered friend back towards their inn. After all the drubbings Berit had given Talen over the last couple of years, he was sure his brother would appreciate the irony of his teacher being bested by nothing more than a common mule.

***

Once they reached the inn and Berit was sitting up in a bed, though, he put the half-completed story away to go down into the kitchens and talk the cook out of a tea-kettle, and hopefully the use of her spice rack. That turned out to be less helpful than it could have been, and so he found himself following her directions back out the door and down the street to an apothecary, hoping he had been directed to a decent one. In Cimmura or Demos, he'd have known exactly where to go, but they rarely spent more than a short night in Lenda. He spotted the swinging sign exactly where the cook had told him it would be, and stepped inside.

"Can I help you, young sir?" a deep, warm bass voice asked before his eyes had adjusted to the dim light inside the shop, and he looked its direction. Possibly recklessly, he liked what he saw almost instantly. He'd obviously been a very tall man, once, but age had put a stoop in his shoulders and a bow in his spine, as well as taken most of his hair. His clothes were entirely clean, and Khalad's nose couldn't pick up even a hint of dust. Spices and herbs so strong that he wanted to sneeze, but no dust.

"I'm looking for comfrey and willowbark. The cook at the White Dove said I should come to you."

"A young man who knows what he wants... how interesting."

"I'm a squire," Khalad said in return, smiling a little, "it's in our best interests to know. Do you have both?"

"I would have to close my doors and retire if I didn't have remedies _that_ simple, young sir," the apothecary said, his voice indignant. "Of course I do."

"Oh, good, then I've definitely come to the right place." Khalad smiled, walking across to the counter. "I need a supply for a week or so-- a friend had a fairly forceful encounter with a wall. I don't think anything's broken, but I'd rather have plenty of both, just in case."

"Prudent," the shopkeeper agreed. "I'm Rymart. A weeks' supply, you said?"

"Yes, please," Khalad nodded, and watched Rymart as he measured out both herbs into packets of heavily waxed paper, and brought them to the scales. He haggled over the price for a little while, as his father had taught him that you never paid exactly what someone asked, but the man wasn't trying to gouge him. With that in mind, he gave in quickly enough that the older man would feel he'd gotten the better of the bargain, and took his packets of herbs back to the inn to start a small measure of each steeping in the teakettle at the edge of the hearth. He took the kettle in a pair of tongs once it had started to boil, mug in his other hand, and headed for the room he was sharing with Berit. He nudged the door open with an elbow, and stepped through.

"What took so long?"

"I had to go shopping, Berit," Khalad replied, setting the kettle on a heavy rug on the floor until the handle cooled enough to lift -- hopefully, the contents had cooled, too. He poured a mug, and walked to the bedside. "The cook didn't have what I needed."

Berit looked up at him, his expression vaguely sour. "This smells vile. Worse than what we're usually dosed with when we get hurt."

"I know. It'll help with the aches, though."

"I'm not sure that's worth what this smell has to taste like."

Khalad tipped his head to the side slightly, giving Berit a long, level look. He would never admit it, but it was one of the expressions he'd learned from his mother, not his father. It had yet to work all that well on Sparhawk, probably because he was too used to seeing it on Aslade, but it seemed to do just fine on Berit. He tried to give him a baleful glare in return -- ruined by still-uneven pupils; but tipped the mug up and drank after a few moments. He coughed, clutching at his chest with one hand, and Khalad wrapped his hand around the mug to steady it.

"That _is_ vile."

"It's medicine. It's not supposed to taste good, it's supposed to be good for you."

"Did you get that from one of your mothers?"

"Why, did it sound like them?"

"Would I have asked if it didn't?"

Khalad snorted. "Point. Yes, I did. At least you're not repeating yourself."

"I thought so. Repeating myself?"

"Stop being so smug and drink the rest of the medicine, Berit, will you?" Khalad said, completely ignoring the half-piteous face Berit put on. "Sometimes people say the same thing over and over when they hit their head. Do you remember Sir Laurent, after that bandit nearly crushed his helm?"

"Oh. Yes."

He hid his smile by biting the inside of his lip when Berit took a deep breath, tipped the mug back, and downed the rest of it in one long gulp, rather than drink it slowly. In his position, he'd have done the same thing. He had, more than once. A childhood with as many brothers as he'd had had lead to several fairly serious injuries over the years, on all of their parts, and his mother believed in healing as quickly as possible. He moved the kettle to against the chimney, where it would soak up as much heat as it could, and looked at his friend.

"I'll be back with our provisions before long, I've just got to go finish some haggling."

"All right. I'll try not to go to sleep."

"Recite Lamorkian history to yourself, or something," Khalad suggested. "Or start in on Talen's next set of lessons."

"An excellent thought," Berit nodded -- and promptly gagged, twisting to one side for the basin to retch.

"Don't do that," Khalad said, shaking his head a little, and went out the door.

***

If all Pandions are this stubborn, Father, how did you manage to serve Sparhawk all these years? Khalad wondered, watching as Berit tried to pull himself up onto his horse. Too soon, given the tender knot Khalad had found at the back of his skull three days ago, and the hoofprint bruises on his chest, but Berit had been in the taproom of the inn when word had come that the first travellers from Demos since the rains had stopped were in the city. After that, nothing had suited but that they saddle their horses and get back on the road.

Khalad had given up when Berit got that mule-stubborn -- he nearly laughed at the choice of words -- set to his jaw, said 'on your head be it. We'll see if you can mount unaided,' and gone to saddle both horses. His gelding was waiting patiently, while Berit's overenthusiastic stallion snorted at the unfamiliar hanging weight and sidestepped, dragging Berit along with him with a scrape of steel boot on the ground.

"Stand still," Berit muttered at the horse, or at least, that was what Khalad was pretty sure the words were, before he set his hands differently and managed the spring up. He had to give him credit for tenacity, at least, if not for good sense.

"Well, you made it," he said, vaulting up onto his gelding, stroking a hand over his grey flank. "Apparently we're riding on."

"Yes. We. are."

Khalad was getting very tired of seeing that particular shade of green on Berit's face. But at this point, if the junior knight was stubborn enough to have gotten on his horse, Khalad wasn't going to drag him back down off of it. If he never had to do this again, though, it was going to be too soon. Berit seemed to think he was _fine_, just because his head wasn't actively hurting any more, up until the point when his skull or ribs reminded him that no, he really wasn't.

He just wondered how long it was going to take before his friend's body won out over his stubborn streak this time.

***


End file.
